


I Did It My Way

by thekidwantsacoffee



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gender nonconforming character, Holocaust survivors, Slow Burn, holocaust mentions, they talk about it but there’s no detail of the camps themselves, two idiots not realizing they’re in love, ukrainian character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23689009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekidwantsacoffee/pseuds/thekidwantsacoffee
Summary: Art Stefanyuk and Michael Ginsberg. The second-best in their respective departments, brought in in the same month in the same year. Of course, being second best means that you have to work twice as hard, so why not work twice as hard with someone you love?
Relationships: Michael Ginsberg/Original Female Character, Peggy Olson & Michael Ginsberg, Peggy Olson & Original Female Character, Peggy Olson/Stan Rizzo, Stan Rizzo & Michael Ginsberg, Stan Rizzo & Original Female Character
Kudos: 2





	I Did It My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is Come a Little Bit Closer by Jay & The Americans, where the title is taken from.

**May 17th, 1966**

**0835**

A week ago, Michael Ginsberg walked through the doors of Sterling Cooper Draper Price with a confidence he had been searching in himself for years now. He wasn’t sure how or why, but he got the job. Mohawk Airlines. No American, but it would do. It was the first agency he had been to that didn’t take a look at his last name and throw him out. He was happy about that, knowing that it was further down on the list of things that people would hate about him. 

Now, on this Tuesday morning, he found himself walking through the doors again, nodding to Carol’s greeting instead of engaging her (he didn’t want to make conversation with her) and dropping his book in the office he shared with Stan and Peggy before going to the break room. 

He grabbed his mug and poured out a cup of coffee, scrunching his nose at its lack of steam. It was lukewarm, so it wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t great either. A little bit of milk in it and it was better. 

His troubles with his cup of coffee weren’t on his mind as much when he saw Joan talking to someone. Someone new. Was he already being replaced?

Joan noticed Ginsberg and brought the new guy over. Girl? Guy? He couldn’t tell. 

“Art, this is a fellow member of team creative,” Joan introduced. “Michael Ginsberg, Art Stefanyuk. Art Stefanyuk, Michael Ginsberg.” 

Art wore a green turtleneck that was tucked into black slacks, and they had patterned socks that lately peeked out from their black shoes.

Ginsberg stuck out his hand as an instinct and Art shook it gratefully. “Nice to meet you.” 

Art had blonde hair in a short haircut that looked like it was starting to grow out. Art was pale and had hazel eyes. Overall, they were very attractive, and it made Ginsberg nervous. More nervous than usual. He hoped that his hands weren’t that sweaty, but him thinking about it made him realize that they probably were. 

“Nice to meet you too,” Art replied with a smile. “I assume you’re the Michael Ginsberg I’ll be sharing an office with?” 

“I guess so,” Ginsberg said, and he knew the look on his face let Joan know what he was thinking. How the hell were they going to fit four people in that office? 

“Now, you will be sharing an office, but Art will be doing most of her work out in the creative lounge, so it won’t be too crowded most of the time,” Joan explained before turning to Art. “That should be everything. I’ll leave you to it.” 

Her. Good to know. Joan leaves and Ginsberg takes a sip out of his coffee. Still lukewarm, but it was getting colder. “So, you’re creative? What do you do?” 

“Art,” Art replied, and Ginsberg smiles subconsciously. He can’t help it, it was ironic. “I know, it sounds ironic, but Rizzo has a ton on his plate and they didn’t want to put on a freelancer, so, I’m here. What about you?” 

“Copy,” Ginsberg replies. “They brought me in last week for Mohawk.” 

“Mohawk?” Art repeats. “No shit. That’s what they put me on.” 

“No shit,” Ginsberg laughs. He notices Art shift, and a question pops into his head and it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Are you a communist?” 

Art laughs hard. “What?” 

“Your last name. Are you a communist?” 

Art shakes her head. “No, I’m not, but I get the confusion. I’m Ukrainian.” 

“Oh,” Ginsberg says. He remembered everything he could about Ukraine. It wasn’t a lot. He knew it was in the old country, and that it was close to Russia. That was it. “Were you born there?” 

Art shakes her head. “I was born in Poland,” She tells him, and Ginsberg’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot up. She had to be joking. Before he could start to talk to her, Peggy walked in and disrupted the mood. 

“Morning, Ginsberg,” She said with the same giddiness that she gave to everyone except for Ginsberg. It didn’t bother him. She probably said it that way because of Art, who she now was fully turned to. “You must be Art! Stan told me a lot about you.” 

“Like what?” Art asks. “I’m curious in what the man has to say.” 

“A lot about your work ethic. I’m glad to have another person on the team, even though I’m not going to be seeing a lot of you from here.” 

“Well, my name’s gonna be on the door, isn’t it?” 

Peggy’s smile faltered, and Ginsberg saw it. That look that she usually only gave him. She picked it back up. “Good to meet you, Art. Looking forward to working with you.” 

“Same to you,” Art replied as Peggy turned and went back to the cramped office. 

“Don’t worry,” Ginsberg tells Art. “She’s like that with me, and trust me, you’re a lot better than I am. I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t really shut up and yells at the radio. You’ll be fine.” 

Art’s smile returns and it makes Ginsberg happy, and he can’t place why. “I think we’re gonna work well together.” 

“Course we are,” Ginsberg tells her. “And if we don’t, at least we’re walking out together.” 

“Great words for my first day.” 

“I’m working on them.” 

**1132**

Ginsberg stood with Stan and Art outside of Don’s office. They were two minutes over for their meeting to talk about Mohawk Airlines. The only reason Ginsberg knew about the time over was because of Stan’s watch. 

Finally, Don opened the door to his office, and the three filed in. 

“So,” Don says, and Ginsberg sees him eye Art as they all sit down. “You must be our new art.” 

Art nods. “Art Stefanyuk,” she greets him and shakes his hand. 

“I’m handing over the Mohawk art so I can tackle Hienz,” Stan explains. “Art’s been in advertising for eight years, don’t worry.” 

Don nods. “So, what have you got for me?” 

Art hands over her pages she had started working on. They consisted of an inked sketch of a Mohawk plane coasting through the clouds, a rough sketch of a couple sitting in a row on the plane, and a man looking at a flying Mohawk with a look of wonder, along with some smaller drawings that she hadn’t gotten to larger paper yet. 

“They don’t have a tag yet?” Don asks as he flips through them. 

“Ginsberg gave me a list of some that he had come up with, I was going down the list,” Art explains. 

“My favorite is the man looking up at the plane,” Ginsberg pipes up, pointing at the drawing he was talking about. “Mohawk Airlines — Where are you headed?” 

Don looks up at him. “That’s good. What else?” 

“The couple’s tag is ‘What you both want’, and the plane in the clouds is ‘We’ll get you there’,” Art explains. 

Don looks over at her cautiously. “Stick with the first one, that’s the best Ginsberg has done so far. I want to see a couple more like the guy looking out. I want to see the wonder on his face. Where _is_ he headed? Maybe do a couple different ones, like a series.” 

Art nods and Don stands up, and everyone else follows suit. Like that, the meeting is over. Ginsberg is still getting used to SCDP’s way of meetings, or at least Don’s, so it’s not until he and Stan get back to their office that he engages in any conversation with him. Art’s back in her current domain, though he wished she was in the office with him. He liked talking to her. 

“What do you think of Art?” Stan asks, and Ginsberg wants to shrug like he normally does, but he can’t. 

“I like her,” Ginsberg says. “I think we work well together.” 

“Bold words from someone who doesn’t even know her,” Stan says.

“I know enough. She also banged out three sketches and four thumbnails in three hours. That’s better than you can do, and it’s her first day.” 

Stan laughs at him. “You say that like you have a crush on her.” 

“I do not.” 

“Good, ‘cause from the looks of it, she dresses like a lesbian and lives in the Village.” 

Ginsberg didn’t know whether or not to believe Stan. Sure, he might’ve been joking, but he did have a point. He wasn’t opposed to Art being a lesbian, but he didn’t like the possibility. Not that he minded lesbians, but he wouldn’t like it if Art was one. 

“Just because she looks like that doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian,” Ginsberg says. 

“Yes, it does.” 

“No, it doesn’t.” 

“Okay, if you don’t have a crush on her, why are you so concerned about her being a lesbian?” 

Ginsberg huffs. “Because you’re assuming things.” 

“You assume things all the time.” 

“Not like that.” 

“Oh,” Stan laughs. “Sure. Alright.” 

**1230**

The lesbian question plagues Ginsberg’s mind and his thoughts until he drops in on Art’s lunch. She has a thermos and a sleeve of crackers and she looks up to see him and she smiles. 

“Hey Ginsberg,” She says, unscrewing the cap. “You headed out to lunch?” 

“I’m gonna take it here,” he sits down across from her as he says this. 

“Oh. Want some crackers?” 

“Are you a lesbian?” Ginsberg asks, and Art laughs nervously. 

“What?” 

“Are you a lesbian?” 

“Does this have anything to do with your communist question?” 

“No. Are you or are you not a lesbian?” 

“No. I am not,” Art laughs. “I happen to like men very much, I just don’t think they like me.”

Ginsberg nods. “Why not?”

“Have you seen the way I dress? My hair?” Art laughs. “I know for a fact you’re not the only one who thinks I’m a lesbian, and you’re definitely not the first to ask. I bet Stan got you to think of that.” 

Ginsberg nods. “I didn’t think you were.” 

“But you just had to know, right?” Art asks. She pours out a hot liquid from her thermos into the cup of the cap. It’s yellowy tan and she stirs it around with a spoon. “I don’t mind. You’re the first person to straight up ask me with no nonsense around it.” 

“How people usually ask?” 

Art laughs. “My favorite was, ‘What team do you swing for? If it’s mine, can I step up to bat?’” Ginsberg laughs with her. “That one was the best. We were in a bar with the rest of creative watching a baseball game.” 

“What did you tell him?” 

“That _she_ had a better chance at pitching for the Expos,” Art says, sliding over the sleeve of crackers, and Ginsberg takes one. “Do you watch baseball?” 

He shrugs. “A few games here and there. Not a lot. I’m not a big sports guy.” 

“It’s the only one I can follow.”

Ginsberg smiles at her as he eats the cracker and she slips her spoon into her mouth. “Do you think liking baseball makes people think you’re more of a lesbian?” 

Art nods. “Probably. A woman simply cannot like sports without her husband, and if she does, she’s probably a lesbian.” 

“So what does that make you?” 

“Lucky, I think.” 

A warm feeling fills Ginsberg’s chest and he pulls his chair in closer and grabs another cracker, already invested in his conversation with Art. There was that thing about her, that she wasn’t like everyone else. She was the only other girl in creative other than Peggy, the only girl in the art department, but it wasn’t just that. He couldn’t put his finger on the connection he felt, but he knew he had to find out.

One question at a time. 

**1423**

“How’s Mohawk coming?” Peggy asks, and Ginsberg doesn’t even look up from his paper. 

“Great.” 

“How’s Art?” 

“Great. She’s nice to work with.” 

“Do you think that’s her real name?” 

Ginsberg turns to face Peggy this time. “What?” 

“Art. Do you think that’s her real name?” 

“She’s Ukrainian. I don’t know how their naming system works. That’s not my people group.” Peggy gives him the look she always gives him. He doubts it’ll go away any time soon. “Why don’t you ask her?” 

“Because that would be rude, Michael.” 

Michael. _Michael_. Ginsberg hated it when anyone called him Michael but his father. It just didn’t seem right. It never sat well with him. He wasn’t going to tell her that now. 

Ginsberg furrows his eyebrows at Peggy, parts his lips for a second, and then says, “Ruder than talking about it behind her back?” Peggy’s look only amplifies, so Ginsberg has to readjust himself to continue to speak. He’s getting used to it. “Look, Art’s not too sensitive to those kind of questions. Just ask. I’m sure it won’t do too much harm.” 

“What, are you an expert on her? You just met her this morning,” Peggy says with a hint of a scoff in her voice. 

“She’s got thick skin,” Ginsberg replies. “She’s had to. Just ask her.” 

He moves to go back to working when Peggy continues the conversation. “Why? Have you asked her something personal like that today?” 

“Yeah, Peggy, I have,” Ginsberg quickly replies. “I asked if she was a communist.” 

A look of confusion passes into Peggy’s face. “Why?” 

The look of confusion and the naivety Peggy was trying to pull off just made Ginsberg even more annoyed. “Don’t act like you weren’t thinking the same thing. With a last name like Stefanyuk, it’s hardly the first time she’s been asked.” 

“You can’t just ask someone if they’re a communist,” Peggy says. “Not with the war going on at least.” 

“Of course you can,” Ginsberg tells her, turning back to his desk. “At least I can.” 

“And why can you? Are you just better than the rest of us?” 

“You know damn well why I can, Peggy.” 

**1645**

"I'm taking off," Stan announces to Ginsberg and Peggy. Ginsberg could care less about when Stan was leaving. He was the Art Director for christ's sake. It was just him and Art in the department, so why should Ginsberg care?

Peggy somehow found an interest in him staying though. "Did you finish the work for Georgia-Pacific?" 

"We don't even know if we have that account, Peggy," Stan says, and Ginsberg can almost hear her glare. "Yeah, I finished it. I'll take it to the Xerox tomorrow." 

"What about Leica?" 

"We don't have them yet either." 

"What about-" 

"Jesus, Peggy," Ginsberg says, turning in his chair. Saying Jesus was weird, he had to admit, but it had been thrown around the office so much he was starting to get used to it. Well, as used to it as he could manage. It helped him fit in better, not that he wanted to. Maybe it was trying to grow on him. He didn't like it. "Just let him go already. What are fifteen minutes gonna do anyway?" 

Stan left as soon as Peggy turned her head to Ginsberg. She wouldn’t have noticed, but he sure did. “Fifteen minutes can mean a lot, Michael.” 

**1945**

The knock at the office door barely caught Ginsberg’s attention, he was too focused on the Mohawk ad, or more like trying to find a tag that wouldn’t be boring and one that would hopefully keep him here and working. Stan had been telling him he was burning the candle at both ends. He assumed the knock was Peggy coming back in to grab something she might’ve left, she was gone for fifteen minutes like she said, that could mean a lot. “It’s not locked!” He called out, not turning to see who it was. 

“It’s me,” He heard a new familiar voice say, and he turned his head to see Art. “Damn. Creative is still just as cramped without everyone.” 

“That’s SCDP for ya,” Ginsberg tells her. He holds his pencil at an angle in his hands. “What can I do for you?” 

Art hands over a mug. “I thought you might want some coffee. Stan told me you hold up in here,” She says. “Oh, and don’t worry, it’s your mug. I checked.” 

“How did you know?” 

“It’s the only one with ‘Ginzo’ written on the bottom.” 

Ginsberg chuckles as he takes the coffee from Art. Stan has written that on the bottom a few days ago. “Yeah, that’s me. Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Art says. She’s quiet for a minute, and then, she says, “Are you a communist?” 

Gimsberg laughs. “Not at all. In fact, I am the exact opposite.” 

“Which is?” 

“Jewish.” 

Art laughed. “I think my name is more Jewish than yours.” 

“How?” 

“Are you kidding me? It’s literally Art. I’m a Garfunkel away from being in a musical duo,” Art tells him, and Ginsberg finds himself laughing stupidly at it. Why? He only laughs around people he trusts. Does he trust Art? “How often are you here? Y’know, after hours.” 

“As long as I need to be. I don’t have anywhere better to be, so why not work?” 

“That’s one way to look at it.” 

“What does that mean? What is that supposed to mean? Why?” 

Art sighed. “When I worked at McCann I stayed later so I could actually work. I was constantly asked questions about the war, like I would know something.” 

Ginsberg knew he didn’t have a filter. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the ability to restrain himself. He just had to know and ask and be curious and have his thoughts out there and his ideas expressed. It was a flaw to most people, it got him fired a few times, but that was Ginsberg. He couldn’t help himself. 

“Because you’re Ukrainian,” He remembers. “But you were born in Poland, and now you’re in New York. That sounds like a story.” 

Art shrugs. “It’s a long one, I’ll tell you that. Sad as hell too. Certainly not a first day of knowing each other conversation.” 

Art’s pale cheeks turned pink. Maybe she had drunk a little bit? “You really want to know?”

Ginsberg nodded, intrigued. He sat his pencil down and turned his whole body to Rizzo’s chair, motioning for Art to sit down. “Lay it on me, Artie.” 

Art sat down, sighed, and Ginsberg handed over the coffee. She took a sip from the mug and placed it on an area of Stan’s desk that didn’t have any work on it. Ginsberg had noticed Stan do the same thing. Mark of an Artist. Or maybe just creative. 

“My parents were from Ukraine. Stefan and Mariya. I was born in Poland during the war,” Art explains. “My parents escaped Sobibór. They hid out until the end of the war. I was born in a barn. I don’t know how they weren’t caught.” 

“Wait,” Ginsberg says. “I thought you weren’t Jewish?” 

“I’m not,” Art tells him. “There were death squads in Ukraine when the Nazis invaded. My parents tried to hide, but they were taken away.” 

“Oh.” 

“Anyway, they eventually gained their liberation from the Nazis by Russia, which they didn’t like. So I could have a better life, away from the communism, away from the fascism, they moved to America,” Art continues. “Funny enough, my dad died from typhus when I was two. The most rampant disease in the camps and he fucking catches it in America. That’s Ukrainian luck for you.” 

Ginsberg laughs, making Art do so. It’s not funny, but it somehow is. He can’t explain it. 

“My mom had a lot of guilt with that, like she could’ve stopped it. I remember it. She was always sad. My aunt had come to America before the war, she would tell me about my dad when my mom couldn’t bring herself to. She’s the only reason why I know anything about my parents, the only reason I know anything about life, before and after the war.” Art laughs after that, her smile solemn. “My mom died when I was six. She was hit by a car when she went out for groceries. I saw it happen. I would’ve lived with my aunt, but a social worker deemed her unfit to care for me. Money troubles. So, I went to an orphanage. I was there for two years before I was adopted by Bonny and Davis. I don’t think either of them realized what I had gone through. I had a heavy accent at the time and I barely knew any English. They didn’t let me see my aunt. I eventually got out when I was fourteen. I stayed with my aunt and I started art.” 

Ginsberg couldn’t help but relate to Art. It was second nature. It was almost like having his story read back to him from a transcript. “Do you believe in aliens?” He asks. It’s the only thing he can do. 

Art thinks for a moment. “Sure. Why?” 

“I’m from Mars,” He tells her. She chuckles, but tilts her head. She’s listening. “It’s fine if you don’t believe me, not a lot of people understand.” 

“I do.” 

“I’m a full-blooded Martian, and don’t worry, there’s no plot to take over Earth,” Ginsberg says. 

“If there was, would you tell me?” 

“Of course, but I wouldn’t let you get hurt.” 

Somehow, it’s easier to talk to Art than he imagined. Maybe because she had told him so much about herself. 

“We’re just displaced,” Ginsberg continues. “It’s a big secret, and they even tried to hide it from me. My father told me I was born in a concentration camp, but you know, that’s impossible.” 

He can see the smile drop from Art’s face, but he doesn’t look her in the eye. Instead, he focuses on the liquid in the cup. The coffee is warm. He knows Art made it for him. 

“And I never met my mother because she supposedly died there. That’s convenient, isn’t it? Next thing I know, Morris finds me in a Swedish orphanage. I was five, I remember it.” Ginsberg pauses here. He’s not sure why. “Then I got this one communication. A simple order. Stay where you are.” 

He knows Art can’t respond to that. He knows damn well she can’t. They’ve only known each other for a day and he’s already telling her secrets he can barely think about. But he wouldn’t have told her if he didn’t think she could handle it. If there was anyone to know anything, especially with a story like hers, it would be Art. 

“Do you think there are others like you?” Is what Art chooses to respond with. It’s a simple answer, but it’s effective, because Ginsberg doesn’t know. 

“If there are, I haven’t been able to find any.” Ginsberg takes a sip from his coffee. “Do you think there are others like you?” 

“I know there aren’t,” Art replies. “Of the 300 people that escaped Sobibór, only 60 survived the war. There aren’t exactly reunions,” She jokes at the end. “I think most of them are in Israel now. My parents were some of the only non-Jews there.” 

“Then maybe you’re like me,” Ginsberg tells her, and he means it. He finds himself meaning it with his whole heart and Art smiles. 

“Yeah, maybe.”

**2035**

Ginsberg closes the door to his apartment as he hears his father in the kitchen. He walks through the little hallway to see his father by the stove, cooking something he couldn’t quite see yet. 

“Hey, dad,” He says. “How was your day?” 

“Eh,” Morris tells Ginsberg as he takes off his coat. “Not too bad. Long line at the deli today. Everyone wanted turkey.” 

“Everyone always wants turkey, dad.” The smell of onions and garlic fills Ginsberg’s nose as he passes his father. It was a homey smell, one that he loved. He didn’t understand how some people could hate onions. “People don’t change too much on their choice of deli meat.” 

“I know, I know,” Morris says, and Ginsberg peaks his head around his father’s shoulder to see his father making pirogies. They rarely got them, so Ginsberg smiles. “How was your work?” 

“We got a new girl in today. She was put on Mohawk with me,” Ginsberg tells his father. 

“Does she do the same?” 

“No, no, she’s on the design aspect of everything. Her name’s Art.” 

“Art?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Is she Jewish?” 

“Ukrainian.” 

“Oh.” 

His father’s voice strikes a string in him. “Oh?” Ginsberg repeats, his eyebrows coming together. “What do you mean, oh?” 

“With a name like Art you would think she was Jewish. I know seven Arts. And you would also think she was a man with that name,” Morris tells him. “Do you think she will stay for long?” 

Ginsberg nods, making a mental note of his father’s quick change in subject. “I think so. She’s good.” 

There’s a pang in Ginsberg’s chest. He wants to ask his father about the concentration camp. He wants to tell him so much more about Art, to see if he’s not the only one. He couldn’t be the only one. If she existed, how could he be? It wasn’t impossible. 

The question bubbles up as his father sits down across from him at their small table, glass of water in his hand, almost shaking with a tremor in the hunger of knowing whether or not he was truly alone. 

His father notices him not eating, and makes a point of it. “It’ll get cold. What’s the matter?” 

It’s the tipping point. “Art’s like me.” It’s an announcement. It’s refreshing. It’s terrifying, but also beautiful. 

Morris, of course, doesn’t understand it. “I know. Advertising. You told me.” 

“No, Dad, she’s like me,” Ginsberg repeats himself. “Her parents...she survived the war.” 

“Like you?” 

“Yes.” 

“But she’s not Jewish?” 

“Stranger things have happened,” Ginsberg says. "Her parents escaped from Sobibor, and she was born in a barn. She's...like me." 

"Did you tell her that?" 

"Yeah." 

Morris shakes his head as he takes a bite out of his pierogi. 

“What?” Ginsberg asks, knowing the look his father has is the look that means he’s wary. “What’s wrong with that?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” Morris says as he finishes chewing. “I just expected you to settle down with a nice Jewish girl, is all.”

Ginsberg rolled his eyes. “Dad, just because I mention a girl doesn’t mean I’m interested in her.”

“Yes, I understand that, but the way you talk? The way you talk indicates that you are.” 

Instead of arguing with his father, Ginsberg sighs, looks down at his plate, and eats dinner. He wonders about what Art’s having for dinner. He wonders about if Art’s thinking about him. 

He wonders if his father’s right. 


End file.
